I'm Not Racist. You're Racist for Thinking I'm Racist

I was dragged to Wal-Mart last night by my wife. It was just how I remembered it: a congregation of the dregs of humanity. I always want a gun, but the Wal-Mart parking lot was the first time in a long time that I felt I might need one. It was six-thirty on a Sunday night so, of course, Wal-Mart was jam packed. When we got out of the car, I felt like I was in a scene from The Wire, and I realized I’ve insulated myself from the real world and real people’s problems. I see lots of different colors of people in my daily life, but if I had to guess, 98% of them have college degrees, and are more concerned about global warming than buying beer with a WIC check. I’ve become a limousine liberal. I’m Barbara Streisand. I don’t want to come in contact with the disenfranchised. I just want to tell them how to live. We found the candy MJ wanted and were in the less than 20 items express line behind a Cambodian refugee. I don’t know if he was Cambodian; I didn’t see a passport or anything, but I’m almost certain he was a refugee. I’m also pretty sure he handed the East Indian clerk a counterfeit sawbuck. MJ doesn’t do well in crowds or with inefficiency, yet she wanted to go to Wal-Mart. The refugee had a penny coming back to him, and the clerk was out of pennies. MJ offered one up, having come back to her senses about being in Wal-Mart, to speed things along. The refugee didn’t make eye contact with anyone because he’s part of a counterfeiting ring, but the clerk acted like MJ was offering up one of her kidneys. As we were walking out, and the clerk was asking MJ for her name so he could nominate her for the Nobel Peace Prize, MJ told me I was right about not wanting to go to Wal-Mart. I didn’t have a voice recorder to catch the rare moment, but I bet Wal-Mart had one cheap.